


A garden of roses

by evanescentdawn



Series: Sam-Centric [3]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Gen, POV Second Person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-29
Updated: 2020-12-29
Packaged: 2021-03-11 02:55:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 781
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28338069
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/evanescentdawn/pseuds/evanescentdawn
Summary: Sam is dreaming. (Or is he?)-The feel of the gun on your head, it’s tempting. You think, finally. Yes. Please. He doesn’t shoot though. He’s waiting. You lick the hood of your mouth.  Who are you?  You know you were someone before It crawled inside your body and—it’s hard to, you can’t, metallic taste sharp in your mouth—Everyone calls you Sam. You remember a tall, lanky man with hands and a home, a fire.
Relationships: Dean Winchester & Sam Winchester, Lucifer & Sam Winchester
Series: Sam-Centric [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2075193
Kudos: 2





	A garden of roses

It’s dark. You can’t see anything. The space around you feels endless. You are falling but you are not moving. Where are you? There’s still hands on your skin. Familiar sensation. Tasting blood in the back of your mouth. You breathe and breathe. **  
**

When does it fucking _end_?

You hear noises, footsteps and look up sharply. It’s Dean. He looks younger. And angry. Solid. Real amongst this emptiness. You can’t look at him. You need to close your eyes and breathe. There’s an ache inside you, clawing at your lungs, desperate to get out. It gets too much and you need to open your eyes and look at him again. He’s still there. Not moving. Staring at you with suspicious eyes. You can’t feel your hands but you want to reach out. You are tired. And he’s looking at you still. Anxious. Wary. 

He feels close but far away. You make a move forward and he startles. Eyes wide like he just got a grip on reality, fishes out a gun from his pocket. Before you realise, the gun is pressing at your temple. Typical, you think fondly, almost smiling, terribly missing your brother. 

This is not him. It’s not. 

“Who are you?” He asks. 

The gun presses more into your skull, you wince at the slight pain, blink and turn to him. 

The feel of the gun on your head, it’s tempting. You think, finally. Yes. Please. He doesn’t shoot though. He’s waiting. You lick the hood of your mouth. Who are you? You know you were someone before It crawled inside your body and—it’s hard to, you can’t _,_ metallic taste sharp in your mouth—

Everyone calls you Sam. You remember a tall, lanky man with hands and a home, a fire. 

Don’t you recognise me? You say. It comes out sharp, too fast. And he hesitates for a moment, his angry expression faltering. Then he looks closer at you—a flash of black in his green eyes before he scrambles back, eyes wide, breathing hard and fast—

 _No,_ he strangles out, in pain, and you never knew a single word could have such power. It feels like a fisted hand to the head. You can’t breathe and your head hurts. He steps further back and further back—cold, wet fingers inside your ears—looks at you like the monster you are. And you wait. Hope. But—

The gun startles out of Dean’s grip and falls. You can hear echoes like shattered glass—cold, wet, amused voice vibrating against your neck—feel a sick drop in your stomach.

You want to laugh, can’t help the rise of sharp bitterness, too many hands on your skin. Every single damn time. When is it going to stop? When is it going to be enough? 

_Sammy, no,_ Dean is saying, shaking and shaking his head, eyes squeezed shut, trembling. _Not you. You wouldn’t. You care! You - despite all the damn odds, always kept going like no one’s business. There’s no reason for you to_ —he stops, sudden, and you know that look, he remembered something. His green eyes are staring at you and he’s smiling. It’s terrible. It’s the smile that ends up with him next to demon making a stupid deal so his little brother can live even if he damns himself to hell; that smile he had during Gadreel, the mark of cain, when Dad left. Denial, you think. For what you don’t know.

Then he says, I’m dreaming, smug, certain. And you are also thinking, _I’m dreaming_. And—

You are feeling something you can’t put a name to but it’s important. You look at him. Your brother who is not your brother. And there must be something in your face, in your expression because then—Dean goes still. His face twists.

_No—_

_Yes_ , you whisper. Soft. And something shifts, breaks

Dean crumbles, falls on his knees with a crack, the sound, sharp, dizzyingly loud, and your head on fire—you can’t, you can’t—he’s—Dean is crushing his skull on the dark floor repeatedly. He bleeds. There’s blood. Blood beside your feet, blood on your hands. Blood that isn’t yours. 

You stand and watch as your brother breaks himself. And you can’t help the words that escape your mouth, it’s too easy, didn’t I tell you to shoot me? The face of despair that looks up at you is not your brother, it’s something else wearing his face but still, you can’t help the rise of _yes_ in your gut.

It tastes something like a grave inside your mouth, burning bones, soil, blood, blood that is not yours, and the sensation of hands on your spine is the strongest. 

**Author's Note:**

> As always, thanks for reading!!


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